


Only Time

by ShezzasCompanion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Drug Use, F/M, Gen, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Patrick Melrose Inspired, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-13 22:47:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14757744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShezzasCompanion/pseuds/ShezzasCompanion
Summary: Sherlock never had the type of relationship with his step father that everyone else did. To everyone else David Carlton was the best man they could know, To Sherlock Holmes he was a monster that haunted him well after his death.





	Only Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ohdrey89](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohdrey89/gifts).



> I was inspired by Benedicts recent series "Patrick Melrose" and so I ran with the idea some characters and situations are similar to the book, however I do not have a claim to them.

Sherlock had his eyes closed for a moment before the phone rang. Usually he would have been rushing for it if everything didn't feel so slow.    
  
He reached for his mobile and answered it.    
  
"Hello, Sherlock? It's Nicholas, I have some bad news, its your father, he died the night before last in his hotel room. I tried to get a hold of your mother but it appears she's gone out of the country with your brother. I hardly need to tell you how much I adored him. We were supposed to have lunch that day too. I told others at the club and they are all sorry to hear about your loss."   
  
"Where is he now?"   
  
"Greenwich village funeral home on Bleecker street. I heard they are one of the best."

 

Sherlock made a noise in his throat. Before telling Nicholas he would be on one of the first flights out to New York and that he would ring from the hotel once he was there.    
  
“I’m sorry to be the one that had to deliver such awful news.” Nicholas said  in a way of goodbye before Sherlock hung up.    
  
He felt giddy now, but perhaps that was the heroin coursing through his veins. He was careful to remove the needle he had left in his arm during the phone call and rolled his sleeve down before calling Elizabeth.    
  
He  felt guilty when he used and she didn’t know about it, which as he thought about it was any time she was gone longer than an hour. But without her home to drown out his thoughts and rather persistent memory, smack was the next best thing.

Perhaps it would be best not to call her while high, he thought as he pressed his phone to his ear, listening to it ring. On the third ring, she answered.    
  
“Hello?”   
  
“Liz, A-are you busy?”   
  
“I am on break at the moment, are you okay?”   
  
“It’s David...he’s dead.”   
  
There was silence. Liz never liked his step father, she hated the fact that Nicholas always called him his father, especially since his real one had died some time before Sherlock’s second birthday..    
  
“What did he die of?”   
“I didn’t ask.”

  
“Do you want me to come home early?” 

“No, I told Nicholas I would be on the first flight out. I have pick up his ashes apparently. No one else can be reached. Unfortunately.”    
  


“Will you be okay to go by yourself?”

“I should be, at least with the smack I’ve just taken.”

“Was that such a good idea?”

“No, of course it wasn’t a good idea.” he snapped. Taking smack or anything else was never a good idea, but it was enough to drown out his thoughts when he was by himself without company or distraction. “Can’t ask you to stay here all the time.” 

Elizabeth ran a hand over her face as she looked out of the break room door to the hospital floor. “I can ask for some time off, I don’t think you should go to pick him up alone.”

“I’ll be fine. In and out In at two to three days. It’ll be a chance to turn my life around for the most part, and give up heroine.”

 

Sherlock wasn’t fine, he discovered as he boarded the plane, not as he was packed into a seat in between two older gentlemen. Their arms touching his no matter how much he drew in his shoulders. He hates being touched, especially if he wasn’t the one to initiate contact or if he wasn’t asked before hand. Perhaps he should have told Elizabeth to come, at least then he could have had a sort of personal buffer. 

For the most part the men where the quiet business types, though from one look Sherlock knew they weren’t going on the business trips they told their wives. The one next to the window was flying to New York to visit his other family his wife in Windsor didn’t know about while the one in the aisle was going to New York to get a connecting flight to California to see the daughter produced from an extramarital affair get married. 

He was certain there where more interesting people on the flight, but he wasn’t interested in them, not as he felt sweat beginning to gather on his brow and his limbs begin to shake as the heroine began to wear off. He checked his watch and groaned a bit, less than an hour to go. He would have to wait until he landed to deal with his withdrawal, at least then he could find something stronger than the inflight tylenol. 

Sherlock flexed his hands an gripped the legs of his trousers, he would have allowed his legs to bounce up and down too, if he did not think it would cause his fellow travelers reason to think there was something wrong with him. He was perfectly fine, as fine as a person withdrawing could be at least. 

The customs line at the terminal reminded him why he hated traveling to other countries, especially as they scanned his luggage and patted him down to make sure he did not have any contraband. It was perhaps the first time he was glad not to be carrying any type of controlled substance. There would be no one to bail him out if he got arrested here and he didn’t think the Metropolitan police would allow his one phone call to be international. Once he was free to go, Sherlock made his way towards the street, before hailing a cab with a bit more difficulty than he had back home. 

“Where to?” The driver asked as Sherlock slid into the back to the cab after placing his luggage into the boot of the taxi. 

“The Waldorf Astoria” Sherlock answered as he closed his eyes in an attempt to ignore his worsening symptoms. It was one of the best hotels in New York, at least that was what he had heard. And if he was going to be there picking up the ashes of the man who made his life miserable he felt he should at least live up to David’s philosophy of “Its either the best or go Without.”

“That’s some fancy place ya goin’.” The cab driver remarked. Apparently wanting to make small talk. 

“I heard it was one of the best in the city.” Sherlock remarked as he opened his eyes and watched the buildings pass. He had only been to New York twice before. Once had been on a family vacation, it was a “celebration” for something Mycroft had done, and the second time was when he had come to the states to get away from England. New York had been the place he ended up before Florida. He had made friends with a dealer during that time, but he wasn’t even sure if he was still in business or still alive for that matter. 

“You here for business or pleasure?”

“Neither.”

“Neither?”

Sherlock sighed “I’m here to claim the body of my step father.” The cab driver was silent for the rest of the drive, most of which was stuck in traffic. 

“Here you are, Mister.” The can driver said once he pulled in front of the hotel. Sherlock looked out the window to make sure that they were in fact in front of the hotel before reaching into his suit jacket for the cab fare before stepping out. 

By the time he had his luggage out of the boot, there was a bellhop waiting at his elbow to take his bags. Any other time he would have refused, he preferred to look after himself but he didn’t think he could. Not at the moment. Not as his stomach began to tie itself into knots and sweat was forming on the back back of his neck and his face. He tipped the bellhop generously as he moved passed him.

Another withdrawal, this time in some foreign hotel. He’d rather die than go through this here.

Sherlock clutched at the counter as he gave the receptionist his name. 

“Floor 33, room 3318. your luggage will meet you there.” She smiled at him as she gave him the key card. This had to be on purpose he thought. She could see the fact he was withdrawing. Though he was certain she couldn’t look through him the way he looked through others. He attempted to keep himself composed. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad this time around. Of course that was just wishful thinking as he stepped onto the elevator and pushed the button for his floor. 

Perhaps he could manage it this time he though, though on the other hand, he could just end it all and not have to deal with anything at all. 

He was trembling now, he could feel it in his fingers, his legs, even his insides quivered. Sherlock squeezes through the elevator doors before they were completely open and propelled himself forward until he made it to his room. The bell hop was waiting for him. It took more tries than he’d like to open the door but the younger man said nothing until they were inside. He was pointing out the bed, the TV, the bathroom, Sherlock have him another twenty to shut up and leave. He would have snapped at him if he was certain he wouldn’t have thrown up if he opened his mouth. 

The beginning of withdrawal always made him want to die. It was the uncomfortable symptoms before the excruciating detox that he would rather avoid. 

Sherlock leaned against the window of the hotel room, it was the right distance that if he could open the damn window he could jump out of it and be done with all of this. He wouldn’t have to pick up David’s ashes or have to meet up with Nicholas or the others that adored and feared the man. He wouldn’t have to listen to their praises that they thought would make him feel better, he wouldn’t have to keep quiet about what a monster their beloved David was. He wouldn’t have to rely on the drugs to stop his mind from wandering if he was on the pavement. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t get the window open it wouldn’t budge. “What’s the point of a window if you can’t jump out of it?” He groaned. He stayed still for a moment as his eyes took in the view of the city. He could make out the park in the distance. It was close enough for him to go and score something to keep the edge off. He had only said he was giving up heroine, nothing else. 

He had no idea how he made it down to the lobby or into the cab that was taking him to the park, the drive seemed longer than it had, but the need for a hot usual made things feel slower. He paid the driver and asked him to wait as he strolled towards the bridge where he was certain there had to be a few dealers. 

He wasn’t disappointed.

There was at least 5, all with different options. He felt like a kid in a candy store. 

“Hey man, you lost?”

“I hardly think so, I’m looking to score.” The demeanor of the man's face changed. 

“Well you’ve come to the right place! I’ve got coke, smack, quaaludes. Whatever you want, I got.” 

“Coke...just coke, six dime bags” Sherlock told the man. The others were tempting, especially the heroine. He didn’t need anything else, but that didn’t mean he did not want it. Especially if he had to go and see David before the cremated him. But it should last home and help him stave off the heroine. If he was lucky he would be on his way on the last flight tomorrow. 

The dealer handed over six bags of coke and Sherlock gave him sixty dollars in return. 

“You’re from England aren’t you?”

“Mmhmm,” Sherlock affirmed as he looked at the baggies given to him.

“How’d you know to look here then?”

“It’s rather obvious, the park has plenty of secluded places for deals to happen, and of course one of my own dealers back home usually drums up business under a park bridge.” Sherlock explained as if it was that simple. 

“Hey come back tomorrow and I’ll have some better stuff!” the man called out as Sherlock walked back to the waiting cab. He pocketed all but one of the baggies and poured half of its contents into his palm before placing it to his pocket. He made quick work of snorting the powder and by the time he reached the cab, he could feel the effects. The jittering in his body gave away to a euphoria before his mind seemed to slow down and stop racing. Maybe, just maybe this would work. 

The cab driver was kind enough not to ask what he had wanted in the park, though he was certain the cab driver could see the change in his demeanor. However he was more than glad to take Sherlock to the funeral parlor, especially since the meter had been running all this time. Once again Sherlock sat back and watched the buildings once again. 

He paid the driver his fare and a bit more for being patient while he scored. It seemed easy enough to walk into the funeral home and approach the young woman behind the desk. The woman could have been no older than twenty five, certainly younger than himself at this point. She was dressed rather brightly for working in a funeral home in her bright red blouse and a matching pinstripe skirt. Her brown hair was done in a way that reminded him of those classic movies from the 1940’s that Elizabeth occasionally watched on her days off.

“I’m here to see the corpse of David Carlton,” Sherlock stated as he leaned against the counter, He looked over the woman who moved to type in the name into the computer. His deductions seemed to be slow, but they usually always were when he was high. It was the downside to being high really, the only downside he could think of, next to the withdrawal. He shook his head slightly until he could get his mind back online before taking another look at the receptionist. 

She was relatively new, working there at least six months but more like eight. She didn’t care for her job, but she liked they pay. 

“Here he is.” Her voice broke through his slow musings and she looked at him over her red framed glasses. “Second floor, last room at the end of the hallway.” She offered him a smile that he didn’t return. 

His shoes slapped against the tile as he made his way to the elevator. He had to work up the courage to push the button for the floor above and for the short ride the attempted to gather himself as much as he could. The doors to the elevator opened with a squeak and he stepped out into the hallway. The door at the end seemed so far away and for a moment he felt as if he was five again, walking down the long corridor that lead from the top of the stairs to the drawing room where David had called him from. The only difference how was Sherlock was 25 years older and his step father was dead. 

Sherlock forced himself forward until he was close enough to reach out for the door knob and turned it, pushing it open slowly until he was standing in the doorway, taking in the numerous people standing around the room, all wearing different shades, as if the one requirement to be present was to not appear if you were mourning. It was then he saw the name on the stand in front of one of the many flower wreaths.: Mandy Smith,

Well this certainly wasn’t it. 

Sherlock turned in his heels and slammed the door shut behind him as he stalked back towards the elevator. What kind of establishment where they running here? Did they routinely send people to the wrong body as a way to help deaden the surprise of seeing who they were there for dead? Or did they just do it to people like him? Either way it didn’t matter as he slammed his hand into the elevator button for the ground floor. 

The receptionist could hear him before she saw him, the sound of his shoes hitting the tile as if he stomped all the way back to her desk. “WRONG BODY.” Sherlock bellowed once he could see her. He was seething now. Did she know how much he had to gather himself for this?

“Excuse me?”

“You sent me to the wrong fucking room.” he snarled as he slapped his hands onto the counter. 

“It's the only party we have sir…”

“I don’t want a party, I don’t want a viewing or a funeral. I want to see the body of My stepfather! ! I want to see the body of David Carlton.” He sneered. “NOW!”  The receptionist jumped and she looked through the books laid out before her before checking the computer. 

“Excuse me.” She murmured as she slipped passed Sherlock. What was so hard about finding a damn body? The officers at scotland yard could find one faster than this, and at least the never lost one before. How did a funeral home lose a damn body? God, Maybe he should have brought Elizabeth, she was better at handling people than he was and being around her made calmed him down better than any heroin or cocaine he could buy off the streets. 

A few moments later, the receptionist returned followed by a man who had an air of importance. It wasn’t difficult to figure out that this man was most likely the funeral director. He was shorter than Sherlock with graying hair and a suit he probably paid for by overcharging people for services they rendered. 

“I am terribly sorry for the mix up. Mr. Carlton is this way, if you’ll follow me.” His tone was meant to soothe Sherlock, though all it did was annoy him even more. Nevertheless, Sherlock followed him down the hallway he had just stormed up from and back into the elevator. Instead of taking him to the second floor, they went one floor up.  

“Again I am sorry for the mix up, Mr. Carlton” Sherlock grimaced. He hated being called that. “Our receptionist can be forgetful at times. We have told her more than once that bodies up for viewing that are to be cremated will be on the fourth floor.”

“Perhaps it would be best to make her a note.” Sherlock suggested as the elevator came to a stop and the doors once again creaked open. The hallway was just as long as before, the only difference was the short man leading the way down towards the door at the end. 

“Will he be ready for pick up this evening?” Sherlock questioned

.”He is set to be cremated first thing tomorrow, you can pick him up after 11 am but before 5, when we close.” The man gave Sherlock a smile as he waved towards the door. “I will leave you alone to say goodbye.”

Sherlock stood there staring at the door as he listened to the footsteps of the retreating funeral director. All of the courage and strength he had mustered up to barge right into the room had vanished two floors below. Now he had to deal with David without the emotional shield he had prepared himself for. 

The door opened silently revealing the dimly lit room, the overhead lights were off and the only light that streamed in came from between the slates in the blinds and curtains. The soft blue and grey wallpaper did nothing to make the room anymore depressing than it already was. Standing in the center was the coffin, the lid had been removed and the body had been covered with tissue paper. 

“Oh look they got me a present, they really shouldn’t have,” Sherlock clapped his hands together in false enthusiasm as he stepped closer to the casket before peeling back the layer of tissue that covered David’s upper half. “Oh Look, they got me-” He stopped. He had not called David dad in years and for a moment he wanted to, the word was at the tip of his tongue ready to tumble out. “They got me...dad” 

David was not the man he was when Sherlock had last seen him years before, when he and Nicholas had left England together to travel. He had gotten older, his hair had turned that silvery grey and had gone without being cut for sometime. The hair on his face had taken on the same shade, though the beard and mustache did nothing to conceal the split lip. 

“What happened there?” Sherlock asked. “Did you know you were dying? Did you try to fight it and it slapped you in the face anyway?” He wanted to reach out, to touch the wound or to just touch David in general, but he found himself unable to. For the first time in his life he couldn’t bring himself to touch something dead. “Were you afraid? God, I hope you were. I hope you were afraid, I hope you felt fear in every fiber of your being as you died in that room alone.”

He had to look away and take a breath he had to gather himself before he began to pour out every reason why he hated him here in this room. It would take the rest of the afternoon and probably all of tomorrow. Sherlock didn’t think he could stand being in a room with him that long. He couldn’t stand being in a room for longer than five minutes since that afternoon when he was 5. Even after he grew up and he had taken Elizabeth to meet his family after they had reconnected he couldn’t bring himself to stay alone with him. 

As he looked back, some part of Sherlock wanted to cry, but he wouldn’t allow himself to, he wouldn’t give David that satisfaction.  

“Look at that, you're still trying your best to make me sad, Dad, too bad.” 

 

The air against Sherlock’s face was pleasant as he stepped out of the funeral parlor. He hasn’t even realized he felt so hot until the moment he stepped into the street. He had nearly 24 hours to kill before he could collect David’s ashes and return home. 

He wandered down the street, his hands in his coat pocket as he went, his fingers moving the little bags of coke over them as a reminder they were still there. That he could take a hit. But Sherlock knew from past experiences that cocaine wasn’t enough to stop the memories that wanted to surface. A hit of Heroin couldn't hurt, it would make the next several hours more bearable at least. He’d have to find somewhere else to score. There of course was that dealer he had made acquaintances with almost eight years previous, and Sherlock could still recall his name and number. It would be a surprise if he was still in business let alone alive it would be more surprising if he remembered Sherlock at all. Then again some people had a tendency to remember him. Elizabeth did, but that was for a completely different reason unrelated to his ability to make people hate him. 

Sherlock had no idea how far he had gone or where he was in this part of the city, not that it. He was was debating whether or not to give Pierre a call at the number his brain kept supplying over all the other sounds and memories it constantly wanted to bring forward. However until he could make up his mind, he wandered down the streets, taking in the people and the business as he passed as a way to keep his mind occupied. Several of the higher-end restaurants were hosting wedding receptions, at least two of the marriages he concluded would be over in 6 months and a year respectively. The first one because the bride was actually in love with her groom’s sister and the second because the groom was only using the bride as a beard until his mother died so he could gain his inheritance and meet up with his lover in Canada. Thought considering the fact the place they chose to have the reception charged at least $15 for a drink, Sherlock did not think there would be much of anything left for him to gain. 

Its not difficult for him to pick out the couples on dates heading to the smaller but yet still well established mom and pop delis and restaurants. It isn’t hard to pick up those who are still early in their relationship and in love and those who are in a relationship and are no longer excited to see one another. Though the presence of couples and small groups of friends just makes him aware of how alone he feels at that moment. Usually he did not mind being alone, at least it was something he did not mind before.  Before he realized that being with someone could calm the noise in his head and allow him to focus on something else when there were no cases to be had. Before he realized that having the presence of someone next to him could at least help him sleep most nights 

Sherlock sighed as he came to one of the street corners and paused at the cross walk, even though his brain suggested stepping out in the street to get hit anyway, perhaps he should have taken Elizabeth up on her offer to come with him after all. Then he wouldn’t be roaming the streets of some strange city, he wouldn’t have to deal with strangers on a plane, or receptionists at funeral parlors, and she would probably make meeting up with Nicholas a bit more bearable As the crosswalk sign changes, Sherlock continues to make his way down the street, where he is at now, he has no idea. The next time he has to stop at a street crossing, he's decided to call up Pierre for a hit.

 

Sherlock finds the nearest payphone not to far up the next street and dials the number that has been playing in his mind since he first considered the idea. Hes surprised that the number still works, even more surprised when someone answers. 

“Pierre?”

“Who is this? How did you get this number?” The french accent is how Sherlock remembers it.  

“It’s Sherlock, we met about eight years ago. I stopped them from arresting you on hit and run charges by proving you weren’t driving and have never driven in your life.” There is a pause on the other line for a moment. 

“Ah, Sherlock! How could I forget such a peculiar name.” Pierre mutters the last part to himself. “What can I do you for you?”

“I-I need a bag of smack if you still deal,”

“My place, fifteen minutes if you still have the address.”

The deal takes place through a slot on the door, which is fine. Sherlock doesn't really want to go in nor does he want to sit down and talk about why he's in the city.  He doesn’t want to talk about David any more than he wants to remember what the man has done to him. He pays double for the heroine, but its pure columbian. He thanks Pierre and dashes out to the cab he paid to wait. 

Back at the hotel he is so excited to get back up to his room and lock himself away in the hopes of forgetting he almost misses the receptionist calling his name. It’s a message, well a calling card from his mother. There is no return number or message, He resists the urge to roll his eyes and crumples the paper and sticks it into his coat pocket. The wait for his floor is longer than before, probably because he had a reason to be up there at this very moment. 

The elevator pings for his floor and he steps out. The room key is already in his hand before he reaches his room. Everything else is forgotten in the moment as he slips inside and locks the door behind him. 


End file.
